The Constantines' bassist Dallas Wehrle

by Justin Valmassoi

Another ten mile bike ride, this time in 95 degree heat under the most unobstructed cerulean sky, from the depths of St. Ben’s straight to the front doors of the Hilton for a bit of brunch provided by the fine folks at Playboy Magazine. My egg sandwich and little French toasts (and fruit skewers!) were enjoyed from the imperial suites, overlooking the entirety of Grant Park and helping put the size of the festival in perspective. Bobbysocks, free condoms, a make-out parlor and the obligatory rabbit head ice sculpture were expected but much appreciated, and media and artists alike started their day with a mimosa or seven and the occasional bit of dancing as DJs J Rose, Mom Jeans and Diplo took shifts at the turntables. Again, my shirt could be wrung out and a 2 liter of sweat bottled for scientific study, possibly to help determine the allure of my heady musk. The memories of yesterday’s scattered showers were burned completely out of me by the oppressive and inescapable heatwave that rose steadily as I regretfully departed from my many, many new half-naked friends and cut a quick line to Perry’s to catch my quarter-naked friends and rising pop stars, Moneypenny.

Half DJ set, half live spectacle, complete with choreographed dancers ... I have to say they killed it, and it’s not because I know them. (The entire staff of UR can attest to this, as I’m pretty sure we were all in attendance and/or part of the band.) Unfortunately, I had to depart just as the sweaty, unrestrained DJ dance party was transitioning into an infectious live electro-pop melee.

I had to go catch the best show of the weekend over on the Citi stage, where Toronto’s criminally underrated The Constantines absolutely and unequivocally dominated the stage for a solid 45 minutes. Every time I see them I remember that they are the single best live band I know, not because of any flashy lighting rig or stage antics, but solely and amazingly on pure artistic merit. A ten minute extended ‘Nighttime Anytime (It’s Alright)’ had the crowd, many of which had no idea who the band was, dancing as hard if not harder than the kids I had just left over at Moneypenny. From there they tore through fan favorites (‘Hard Feelings,’ ‘Shine A Light,’ etc.) in a nearly nonstop and certainly unstoppable torrent, pausing only briefly to thank the Empty Bottle for years of support, a touch that showed genuine appreciation for the city of Chicago beyond rote shout-outs delivered by almost every other act I saw that weekend. I am seething with jealousy at anyone who got to attend the Gaslight Anthem/Constantines double-bill at the Double Door, as I have no idea when they will be in town again. Whenever it is, I cannot urge you enough to go experience what is a genuinely cathartic live show, a reaffirmation of faith in rock and roll; blistering, impressive and inarguable, the sound of five consummate musicians restitching blue collar rock around a post-punk framework, tying it together with Bryan Webb’s gravelly shout and beating their audience with wave after wave of sound without ever misusing it or alienating anyone. It’s anthemic, intricate and infectious, veering wildly from danceable locked grooves to reverent moments of silence to five-man shouted choruses but never uncontrolled and never unimpressive.

Basically, The Constantines ruined Lollapalooza for me. Nothing could compete.

Nevertheless, I keep my promises and I like my job, so I shot back to the media tents to scribble notes like “FACEMELTED” and “feedback!” and drink one or seven delicious cans of Bud Light Lime (with natural lime flavor) because I am also, believe it or don’t, incredibly classy. I was supposed to catch Langhorne Slim but I literally needed some time to process how thoroughly I had just been musically mindfucked by The Constantines.

And it takes me about 45 minutes to kill seven Bud Light Limes.

I chatted briefly with Sean ‘Slug’ Daley of Atmosphere before pulling up a tree branch overlooking the 2016 stage for their always satisfying live show. While I am not a fan of his last three albums, there was definitely a time when Daley’s particular brand of Midwest hip hop hit all the right buttons, and old favorites like ‘One Of A Kind’ had heads and hands moving as much if not more than the recent jams from When Life Gives You Lemons. Where many hip hop acts try their hand a dragging a live band out for shows of this size, Atmosphere kept it proper. Just Slug and A.N.T. and a couple backup singer/dancer types. Their strength lies in Slug’s well-honed stage persona, half-prick half-puppeteer, insulting his audience even as he gets a sea of hands up in the air and moving. The crowd was huge, and completely under his control, and I have to say that my disdain for the newer material did nothing to diminish my enjoyment of the show as a whole. They have always been an excellent act to catch live, on a stage of any size.

I missed Chairlift as well, due to the arrival of some media associates from an upscale fashion/design magazine which necessitated the acquisition of foodstuffs and one or seven more Bud Light Limes while we correlated schedules and agendas, afterparties, sleeping arrangements and inside jokes.

I caught a considerable amount of dancing and general disco nonsense by the incredibly talented Hercules and Love Affair (DJing at Perry’s, unfortunately, not performing) on my trek from the media haven to catch Santigold on the Playstation stage. It was, by this point, late afternoon on a 97 degree day, and the forced march from the relatively self contained and labeled “Southapalooza” to the northern stages will test the patience and endurance of even a world-renowned athlete/scientist/model such as myself. Imagine an episode of Man vs. Wild where the “wild” Serengeti is represented by the area between the Q101 Hammock Haven and the Budweiser stage, “man” is me, and a stampeding herd of wildebeests has been replaced with a seven stampeding herds of alternating teenagers/shirtless guys in backwards baseball caps/stoned college kids/hipsters and the air has been turned into jelly. Hot jelly.

It’s grueling. It really is.

Santigold, who I could have appreciated more were I not hemorrhaging sweat at an alarming rate and completely encased in a sheath of hipsters, was … not disappointing, but neither did she approach the level of Brooklyn half-ska-dance-magic I was hoping for. It was a fairly straightforward set, containing all the requisite jams (‘Brooklyn Go Hard,’ ‘Shove It,’ ‘Lights Out’) and she was, as always, dressed to the nines in something 96% of the human race would look like an asshole even attempting. Still, something seemed missing. The African/island vibe of her band lacked some of the necessary punch that should have turned studio bangers into onstage crowd killers, so while there was a decent amount of hipster dancing (oh, hipster dancing … please stop) it was not the type of maniacal art-pop rager I had my hopes pinned on.

I muscled through a bit of TV On The Radio, but the heat and smell and the fact that I genuinely think they did their best work when it was just a two man band sent me into the port-a-john jungle after only a few songs, where it took me a good thirty minutes of chatting up Dubliners and dope fiends before I could mercifully void my bladder knee deep in discarded beer cans and white wine squeeze bottles.

I crawled, a broken shell of the model/scientist I once was, to Diplo’s set at Perry’s. I don’t know what weird convergence of events was at play, but I literally ran into the man about 14 times at various areas, parties, schwag giveaways and bathrooms throughout the weekend and I cannot stress enough how jealous I am of talented musicians/artists/etc. who also happen to be impeccably dressed and really good looking. No offense, but screw you, Diplo. Get a harelip. Club bangers, Jamaican jams and MIA’s ‘Paper Planes’ had a massive crowd dancing like idiots for well over an hour, every conceivable type of drug and body fluid exchanged or sold, until the sheer excess of it sent me fleeing for cover and –wait for it- Bud Light Lime.

I opted out of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, partially due to exhaustion but mostly because I have seen them about twenty times, since they were playing venues with a capacity of 250, and I know for a fact they’ve evolved into a respectable headlining act. All reports indicate they kicked several varieties of ass, and I’m still a little disappointed in myself for lacking the mettle to stick it out. Nevertheless, free Bud Light Lime.

It’s harder than it sounds, this festival coverage gig. I should have been training for months, making sure my body was a waterproof machine devoid of sweat glands. Nevertheless, I did my best, and left Saturdaypalooza to fend for itself while I bathed and gussied myself in a nearby hotel for the festivities and further free drinking to follow.

Two days down, one to go.